Meal at burials

I feel uncomfortable when the death of a loved one comes to my notice, someone I must have had ‘dealings’ with prior to their demise. And since I have never really lost anyone ‘too close’ to death, my very aged ‘grams’ being the closest, attending burials are one task too heinous for me to grace quite regularly. Matter of fact, I can count the number of such occasions I have attended my whole life with both palms, obviously lesser than eight.

Burial rites like the Lying-in-state, having to sight corpses, lowering of once upon a bubbling body into the grave and covering up with sand, tomb design with flowers are not just my thing. And then after the party is long gone, the nightmares for me starts from having to take a second glance at even my own shadow, to be sure no ghost is after me. To not wanting to sleep all by myself, then goes the fretting at any unusual movement in my room and so much more. Days like these I hate those nuisance called rats. They are very good at scaring the ‘shit’ out of me with their reckless abandon on debris, and this especially makes me feel the ghost of the beloved is at work.

“Are you responsible for mama Olabisi’s death” my mum curiously inquired from me some years back. I was in bed with her to pass the night because we just lost a neighbor to electrocution. Mum has always queried my being unable to sleep alone when someone dies. Long story short, she sent me back to my room and my fears overnight were better imagined.

 Meanwhile, another twist to my burial-related syndrome is that, I seem to be the most emotional member of the audience when the life and times of the dead is recounted, that I might even shed the most tears than the bereaved. It’s usually that bad. Sometimes I even fear that the aftermath struggles that I have in torrents, after being an attendee of a burial might as well just kill me if go to burial ceremonies too often. 

All of these asides, habitually I also try to boycott meals at burials, most especially when the deceased is too young. The last one I attended saw me not being able to eat the puff-puff (local name for dough) served at the wake-keeping service because I was literally in tears. Eyes looking all reddish and nose dripping mucus so endlessly that my taste bud left me hanging. So I could not consume a thing.

 Yet in the middle of the somber moments was brouhaha from some corners of the hall, over who has been served food and who hasn’t. This annoyed me more than it would amuse me. You mean some sons and daughters of eve would come to a burial to supposedly console the bereaved only to be fighting over food?

Like seriously?

Well, if I was the deceased, I’ll be so mean that I’ll scare them to death in their sleep.

What effrontery?

“Be that as it may my dear Parents especially, here goes the closest people to me right about now, please grow very old before tasting death.”

The prayer above is actually my incessant prayer to God every other day. By that time, I believe I should be strong enough to throw parties and cook a lot of meals for people to eat and be merry. But will I still be able to eat?

I think I should.

Finally, I hope to maintain my stance of boycotting burials as much as I can, and my standard remains that meals served therein are generally not for my consumption too. Maybe if the deceased was aged anyway.

(More of a rant though…………………………………………)